Intro:

This story drags on a bit, for which I apologise. I thought the dream
sequences with Shakespeare's characters were too lengthy, but
necessary to the story. Maybe. Me, I can't stand the guy. Bleeding
ponce. Anyway, they were inspired by a dream I had one night after
cramming for an English exam - the scenes that follow aren't all that
different from my original dreams. Creeped me out, big time.
Also, the net sites and e-mail addresses are fictional, as far as I
know. But for a taster of the 3D Lament Configuration, explore
http://www.fortunecity.com/victorian/hillcrest/76/hellraiser/downloads
.html

And of course, feedback is much appreciated. If you like the story,
say so. If you thought it sucked like a vacuum cleaner, say that too.
Let's get on, shall we? 

				-- 2001 Anabelle Eight

Virtual Hell

	Celeste Merchant drummed her fingers impatiently against the
table top as her computer beeped and squawked at her: the normal
sounds of her PC slowly and painfully connecting to the seldom-working
phenomenon that was the World Wide Web.
	'Sounds like someone's being strangled in there,' she observed
to the empty apartment as the 'Dialling' window on her computer screen
was replaced with 'Checking User Name and Password'.
	'Come on, come on.' The 'Checking ...' window closed and her
e-mail account homepage flashed up onto the screen. Tapping in her
password, Celeste glanced beside her desk at the mirror fixed to her
wardrobe door; at her auburn-haired, brown-eyed reflection. In her
tiny ninth-floor apartment, she couldn't afford the luxury of a
separate bedroom and study, so everything was crammed into one room.
The monitor, hard drive, and all the other paraphernalia that went
with it sat, hulking, beside the single window on the south side of
the apartment. Opposite that was the wardrobe, and beside *that* were
the bookshelves, crammed with volumes and volumes of William
Shakespeare's greatest works.
	Celeste was, much to her private embarrassment, a collector of
Shakespeare's plays. She had begun studying them in high school, and
had become an avid reader, hooked on the imagery, language, and
terrible tragedies that befell most of Shakespeare's characters.
Hamlet was her favourite, and she knew she could quote it almost by
heart. This and the rest of Shakespeare's volumes were stacked
haphazardly on the bookshelves among scores of other novels, leaning
to and fro like lazy old men, and as a result, her shelves took up
more room than her bed. Because of this, her desk and chair were
directly in the path between the doorway and the bed. Celeste had lost
count of the number of times she'd stumbled bleary-eyed out of bed in
the morning only to trip over her desk chair and go flying. Now, in
from her wearying office job and able to relax for a while, she wanted
anxiously to see if Tom, the sexy blond guy from California that she
had met two weeks ago at 'LitChat.com', had e-mailed her back once
again.
	As the digital information calculated at faster-than-light
speed - which, for Celeste's computer, was about 2 miles per hour -
Celeste's Inbox appeared on the monitor. Scrolling down quickly, she
saw three new messages:
	Musicnews@musicscene.com	- Re: All the Latest at MusicScene!
	TomiBoy@surfnorth.com		- Re: Hi again ;)
	PuzzleMaster@demons.com		- Re: Time to Play, Celeste.
	The first - an advertisement for MusicScene, a popular net
site on various types of music - Celeste deleted straightaway, then
turned her attention to the second message, which was from Tom. She
quickly opened it and skimmed the text, smiling as she read it. She
sent her response, then opened the 'Disconnect?' window as the screen
returned to her Inbox. She was about to sever the connection when she
noticed the third message she hadn't read. Moving her mouse to open
it, she paused, staring at the heading.
	'Re: Time to Play, Celeste.'
	That was weird. Her e-mail address was 'Catch_27@getnet.com' -
a play on the title of Joseph Heller's 'Catch-22', a favourite of
hers. Since her current age was twenty-seven, she substituted that for
the number instead. Her e-mail address *didn't* contain her name, and
she hadn't filled out a profile when she joined with GetNet.com -
she'd left it blank. So why was her name in the subject title? The
address wasn't from anyone she knew, and certainly no-one would put a
heading like 'Time to Play' anyway. It had yesterday's date, and the
time sent was 23:59. Just before midnight.
	*Weird enough*, she mused, staring thoughtfully at the screen.
In order to find out her name, 'PuzzleMaster' would have had to hack
into her account details, which was annoying, but he or she could be
sending her an e-virus - they were sent to your Inbox, and when you
opened them, the virus was transmitted to your hard disk, wrecking all
your files. *No way, amigo*.
	She deleted the message without opening it and called up the
disconnection window once more. This time, she clicked 'OK' and shut
the computer off, getting out of her desk chair. As she did, she
noticed the scribbled message tacked to her notice board - "Mail to
Jack!!!"
	Celeste swore and turned back to her computer, stabbing the
power button viciously. She was supposed to have e-mailed Jack - a
friend from university she used to share a flat with - three days ago,
and every day since she'd forgotten. Jack was excellent at
number-crunching. He was a friend and an accountant - put those
together and you get free and friendly financial advice. A week ago,
she had e-mailed him copies of her accounts for his perusal, and had
discovered later that she'd forgotten to send one. It was currently
suffocating under mounds of sleepy paper in her filing cabinet. While
her PC booted up, she riffled through her cabinet for the account. As
it scanned to the hard drive, Celeste listened to the obligatory
strangled man screeching for help from within the depths of her
computer while it retrieved her Inbox from the information
superhighway. About to click 'Compose Message', she saw the flashing
text at the top of the page - '1 new message(s)'.
	She scrolled down in surprise - Tobias couldn't have replied
already, could he? - then frowned in irritation as she saw the title
of the new message:
	PuzzleMaster@demons.com - Re: Time to Play, Celeste.
	'He sent it again!' She sighed. Then she gaped in confusion at
what she saw beside it - yesterday's date, and time received was
23:59. Same as the message she thought she'd deleted.
	'Damn technology. Never works.' She ran her hands through her
hair and sighed again. 'Okay. Fine. Goodbye, *PuzzleMaster* - go to
Hell!' She punctuated the last three words by poking the keyboard hard
with one finger. Grabbing the mouse, Celeste highlighted the message
and stabbed 'Delete'.
	Nothing happened. She hit it again. Still nothing.
	'Come on. Delete!' Again. Still nothing. Unsettled now, she
hit the keyboard with both fists. The screen went white. Celestegave a
hissing breath and jerked her hands away from the keys. 'Damn damn
damn damn ...' she mumbled. The PuzzleMaster message had still been
highlighted, and Celeste had hit the enter key when she struck the
keyboard. The message, a possible virus, was open.
	Celeste watched the screen fill with text. Well, it wasn't
much text. Underneath some advertisements and the e-mail company logo
was the sender's e-mail address, the subject, date and time sent.
Underneath that was the message, only six words. The entire text of
the message read:

>Care to play a game, Celeste?

	Nothing else. No signature, no name, no advert from demons.com
telling you join with them right away and they'll throw in 30Mb of
free web space and a toaster oven - nothing.
	'Well, at least it's not a virus,' she shrugged, oddly
comforted by the sound of her own voice. But what was more strange was
the need she felt to *be* comforted. A crawling sensation had started
between her shoulder blades - for some reason she couldn't explain,
she was spooked. A flash of movement to her left caught her eye, and
she started, turning with fists clenched to face ... her own wide-eyed
reflection in the wardrobe mirror. She closed her eyes briefly,
angered by her own jumpiness.
	'I'm not writing back to this - it's too weird.' She continued
to herself. 'Internet nutcase.' The sound of her voice *was* calming;
her own way of whistling past the graveyard. She massaged her right
shoulder, attempting to ignore the shiver that twisted up her spine.
	She was spooked alright. But she was also intrigued - and that
scared her more. She settled the cursor over the 'Close Program' icon
and stopped. Looked down at the message again.

>Care to play a game, Celeste?

	It was a mysterious message, and those six words sparked off
an intense curiosity inside her. The phrase seemed familar, like
*deja-vu* or a half-forgotten name on the tip of your tongue, and
Celeste was fascinated by it's elusiveness.
	'Oh, damn it all to hell,' she muttered, barely aware she was
speaking. She brushed that moment of coldness from her thoughts, and
clicking 'Reply', she began to type.

>Care to play a game, Celeste?
Maybe. What kind of game?

	Biting her lip, Celeste clicked 'Send'.

						***

	The next night, Celeste settled herself in front of the
computer and called up the Internet connection, simultaneously wanting
and not wanting to see if PuzzleMaster had replied. She had spent all
day thinking about the strange message, and as a result had spilt two
cups of coffee, stabbed herself with a pencil and knocked over a pile
of papers on her desk. What a day.
	She looked back at the screen. The blinking text at the top
confirmed that she had two new messages. Halfway down was a message
from Tom, and one from PuzzleMaster:
	PuzzleMaster@demons.com - Re: The game has begun.
	Celeste found herself ignoring Tom's message altogether and
immediately opened the second.

>Very good, Celeste. You've taken the first step. We had to hear from
your own lips that you
>wished to participate in our little game.

	*We? Our?* Celeste had been under the impression that she was
dealing with one person. Apparently, she'd been wrong.

>I must warn you that the game is not without risk. It is a game of
reason, desire and will. If
>you are not skilled enough to win, your life remains the same -
monotonous, tiring and
>ordinary. But if you win, you will open the door to phenomenal
dreams, dark mysteries and
>unimaginable fantasies.

	Then, a couple of lines below:

>Do you choose to play?

	Celeste hesitated only a moment. That solitary chill twisted
up her spine again, frosty fingers both prodding her forward and
urging her backwards.
	'Sure. Why the hell not?' She whispered, clicking 'Reply'.
'Lay it on me, baby.' She shrugged distractedly, fingers on the
keyboard.

>Do you choose to play?
Sure. Let the games begin.

						***

The following evening, Celeste received a riddle from the
PuzzleMaster. The subject was 'The 1st Puzzle.' Perplexed, Celeste
opened it. The message read,

>Solve for me three riddles, child, before the advent of the final
puzzle. Reason cautiously,
>for a wrong answer will result in the termination of our game. Things
are not always what
>they seem. For the answer, look to your Shakespeare - and answer
wisely.
>
>
>At the end of the day, this awaits us all.

	That was it. Celeste stared at the screen thoughtfully,
resting her chin in her hands. The riddle was fairly familar to her,
and was quite simple - the only problem was, it had two answers. The
first answer was obvious, if the riddle is taken metaphorically:
something that awaits us all, at the end of our day. Or to put it
another way, days.
	'Death.' Celeste said it out loud, trying to put things in
perspective. 'But on the other hand ...'
	On the other hand, if the riddle is taken literally, the one
thing that we meet at the end of the day - when the sun sets - is
*sleep*.
	'It could be either one of these! How I am supposed to know
which?' She cried, feeling ridiculous speaking to a computer but
unable to help herself. And what about Shakespeare? How had
PuzzleMaster known that she liked Shakespeare? Or was it just a lucky
guess?
	For the second time, doubt began to creep into Celeste's mind.
*Was this a joke? A colleague? A friend?* But she could think of
no-one who would do something like this. And besides, something inside
her was uneasy, urging her that this was very serious indeed. She put
it out of her mind and focused on the riddle.
	Shakespeare. One of his plays? Sonnets? She could think of
plenty of references to sleep or death - most of his plays were
tragedies, and depressing speeches of death and sleep were plentiful
in his intense works. *Othello*, *Hamlet* and *Romeo and Juliet* in
particular were full of them.
	She switched off the computer and stepped into the living
room, searching her bookshelves until she found what she was looking
for - *William Shakespeare: The Tragedies*.

						***

	Scrubbing at her tired eyes, Celeste glanced at the clock.
2:23am.
	*I've really got to go to sleep*, she groaned inwardly,
looking at the mess of papers on the bed. She was sitting in the
middle of a jumble of books, pens and notes, and had been scouring
through *The Tragedies* for a good five hours, trying to find
*something* that made sense. Her mind was whirling with Old English
quotations, her eyes were burning and she still had made no progress.
	Celeste reached forward and shoved the papery chaos onto the
floor. Dragging herself to her feet, she exchanged her shirt and
trousers for a nightdress and slid into bed. Five minutes later, she
also slid into sleep.

	Juliet sat on a stone coffin, an empty vial of poison clutched
in one hand. Romeo lay beside her, having already drunk the contents
of the vial. She gestured to Celeste.
	'Left no drop to help me after,' she mourned. 'Wisely and
slow, Celeste. They stumble that run fast.' Juliet reached down and
stroked Romeo's cheek. 'A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life.
O happy dagger - this be thy sheath!' Celeste gasped as Juliet
produced a dagger and plunged the blade into her own chest. Blood
poured from Juliet's mouth and chest, her hands grasping empty air in
her agony. Celeste backed away, horrified. With a final exhalation,
Juliet slumped over her lover's body, the dagger dropping onto the
ground. Footsteps approached. Macbeth, King Lear and Othello trod
towards the two bodies.
	'Is this a dagger I see before me?' Macbeth asked Celeste,
picking it up. 'All our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty
death. Out, out brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, remember.'
	'Nothing will come of nothing - think again,' Lear addressed
Celeste. 'Thou art a soul in bliss. Get thee glass eyes!'
	Gloucester lurched into view, both eyes missing. 'I have no
way, and therefore want no eyes; I stumbled when I saw!' He cried,
clutching at Celeste. 'Do you see? Listen! Listen well!' Celeste tore
herself out of his clawed grip in revulsion, shrieking. Gloucester
shook his head, drops of blood flying from his gutted eyes, and
staggered away.
	'Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend! Thou'lt come no more,
never, never, never, never.' Lear walked away, scowling angrily.
Othello stepped up beside Celeste and whispered in her ear.
	'To mourn a mischief that is past and gone is the next way to
draw new mischief on. Good name in man and woman is the immediate
jewel of their souls: who steals my purse steals trash. He that is
robb'd, not wanting what is stol'n, let him not know't, and he's not
robb'd at all.' He winked and disappeared into the shadows, teeth
gleaming in the darkness of his face. For a moment there was silence,
then out of the shadows stepped Hamlet, bowing graciously.
	'To be, or not to be - that is the question: whether 'tis
nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous
fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing
end them? To die, to sleep - no more; and by a sleep to say we end the
heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to, 'tis
a consummation devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; to sleep,
perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub. The dread of something after
death - the undiscover'd country, from whose bourn no traveller
returns. The rest is silence, Celeste.'
	*Silence*.

	Celeste forced her eyes open. It was dark, still the middle of
the night. Just a dream. Her relief was only momentary - she sat up
quickly, throwing the bed sheets aside, driven by an urge to see
something. She was out of bed and moving before she knew why. By the
time she reached the foot of the bed, Celeste recalled the dream
completely. Her subconscious mind had known what it meant, and now,
she thought she did too.
	There was a lot of nonsense within the dream - a result of
reading all of Shakespeare's tragedies in one night. All she had to do
was separate the important quotes from the useless ones. Hamlet's
character had given her a clue.
	Celeste grabbed *The Tragedies* and flipped it open. Then she
realised she couldn't see anything. She threw herself across the bed
and flicked the light switch. She looked down at the book - she was in
the middle of *King Lear*. Blinking her eyes in the sudden
illumination, Celeste thumbed through the pages until she found Act
III, Scene I of *Hamlet*. Suddenly positive she was right, she skimmed
down the page until she found what she was looking for - Hamlet's
seminal monologue, part of which Celeste's dream-Hamlet had not
spoken. The most important part.

'To be, or not to be - that is the question;
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die, to sleep -
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.'

*For in that sleep of death what dreams may come*.

	'Sleep of death,' Celeste mused to her blank computer screen.
'What awaits us all at the end of the day? Sleep and death. A sleep
*of* death - the final end to the final day.' She threw the book on
the bed and pushed the power switch to the PC. A few moments later,
she was contemplating the PuzzleMaster's message. She breathed out,
then gnawing her lower lip, gingerly typed a reply.

>At the end of the day, this awaits us all.
Sleep of death.

She clicked 'Send', shut off the computer, and went to bed. There were
no more dreams.

						***

	'What have we got today?' Celeste wondered, tapping her
password into the box onscreen. One new message - from the
PuzzleMaster. It was headed 'The 2nd Puzzle'. Eagerly she clicked the
link and surveyed it quickly.

>"Sleep of death" - The correct answer. Congratulations Celeste, we've
made an excellent
>start. I see you found the answer quite rapidly - I hope you had a
restful night.
>Here is the second riddle. Remember, answer wisely.
>
>
>With you in your journeys I must coast,
>Your walking carcass is my host,
>No shape or features I can boast,
>No flesh, no bones - yet not a ghost.

	Celeste stared at the rhyme in dismay. 'My God.' She had no
idea what it could be. 'Okay, let's think about this,' she
deliberated. She copied the short verse to her hard disk, printed it
out and switched her PC off. Pushing the keyboard out of the way, she
stood, grabbed her dictionary and thesaurus from her top shelf, and
using the PC desk as a table, got to work.

						***

	Celeste hit the lightswitch and sank into bed. After trying to
work it out all evening, she was exhausted, and still no closer to
finding the answer. Hoping her dreams would once again give her a
revelation, she rolled over and tried to sleep.

	Juliet sat on a stone coffin, an empty vial of poison clutched
in one hand. Romeo lay beside her, having already drunk the contents
of the vial. She gestured to Celeste.
	'Left no drop to help me after,' she mourned. 'Wisely and
slow, Celeste. They stumble that run fast.' Juliet reached down and
stroked Romeo's cheek. 'A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life.
O happy dagger - this be thy sheath!' Celeste gasped as Juliet
produced a dagger and plunged the blade into her own chest. Blood
poured from Juliet's mouth and chest, her hands grasping empty air in
her agony. Celeste backed away, horrified. With a final exhalation,
Juliet slumped over her lover's body, the dagger dropping onto the
ground. Footsteps approached. Macbeth, King Lear and Othello trod
towards the two bodies.
	'Is this a dagger I see before me?' Macbeth asked Celeste,
picking it up. 'All our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty
death. Out, out brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, remember.'
	'Nothing will come of nothing - think again,' Lear addressed
Celeste. 'Thou art a soul in bliss. Get thee glass eyes!'
	Gloucester lurched into view, both eyes missing. 'I have no
way, and therefore want no eyes; I stumbled when I saw!' He cried,
clutching at Celeste. 'Do you see? Listen! Listen well!' Celeste tore
herself out of his clawed grip in revulsion, shrieking. Gloucester
shook his head, drops of blood flying from his gutted eyes, and
staggered out of sight.
	'Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend! Thou'lt come no more,
never, never, never, never.' Lear walked away angrily. Othello stepped
up beside Celeste and whispered in her ear.
	'To mourn a mischief that is past and gone is the next way to
draw new mischief on. Good name in man and woman is the immediate
jewel of their souls: who steals my purse steals trash. He that is
robb'd, not wanting what is stol'n, let him not know't, and he's not
robb'd at all.' He winked and disappeared into the shadows, teeth
gleaming in the darkness of his face. For a moment there was silence,
then out of the shadows stepped Hamlet and his father's ghost, where
they stood still. Then Hamlet addressed his father.
	'Speak, I am bound to hear.'
	'I am thy father's spirit, doomed for a certain term to walk
the night, and for the day confined to fast in fires, 'til the foul
crimes done in my days of nature are burnt and purged away. List' ...
List' ... Oh, listen ... Revenge is foul, and most unnatural murder!'
	Hamlet started. 'Murder?'
	'Murder,' his father continued, nodding complacently. 'Most
foul, as in the best it is. But this most foul, strange and
unnatural.'
	Stricken, Hamlet clasped both hands to his chest, in an oddly
exaggerated gesture. 'Oh, my prophetic soul!'
	Hamlet's father shook his head woefully, then turned to
Celeste and gestured to himself. 'No flesh, no bones - yet not a
ghost.' He reached up with one translucent ivory-coloured hand,
placing it over his chest. Pressing the vaporous hand into his
crystalline flesh, he grimaced, and extracted something from within
his ghostly heart. Holding his cupped hands out to Celeste, he opened
his fist, and Celeste was blinded by the pale light that issued from
it. 'Not a ghost.'

	Celeste sat up with a gasp, crying out wordlessly. A keening
wheeze issued from her throat as she realised where she was and what
was happening. That dream again, same as the last - except for the
ending.
	'I don't understand!' She commented to the empty room. 'Why
the same dream?' First light was filtering through the curtains - it
was Saturday morning. Celeste swung her legs out of bed and rubbed her
eyes, muttering. ' "No flesh, no bones - yet not a ghost" ... murder
most foul ... not a ghost ... my prophetic soul ... soul ...' Suddenly
Celeste looked up in surprise. 'Soul!' She stood up and walked around
the bed, thinking hard. She recited the rhyme once, and then again,
and then lunged for her computer, still in her night clothes. When the
PC had finished the ritualistic squawking synonymous with Internet
connection, Celeste opened the PuzzleMaster's e-mail and typed her
reply.

>With you in your journeys I must coast,
>Your walking carcass is my host,
>No shape or features I can boast,
>No flesh, no bones - yet not a ghost.
A soul.

	She sent the message, shut off the computer and got dressed.

						***

>I am seen. I am invisible. I am large. I am small.
>I am always by your side, you have no need to call.
>I weigh nothing at all, I am light as can be.
>Darkness is my killer and light destroys me.

	'Oh, bloody hell ...' Celeste moaned, burying her face in her
hands. Another day, another dollar. 'The Final Riddle'.

>"A Soul". Well done, Celeste. "The Soul" would have been slightly
more accurate, but we >have so generously decided to accept your
response. Now you must solve this, child, the last
>of our three puzzles, and then all that remains is the final test ...
before being given the >wonders we offer. We have such sights to show
you, Celeste.

And then the riddle - nearly impossible to decipher. For one awful
moment, she felt like giving up. But on the end of that thought came a
rush of despair, and a cold voice inside her, whispering; a voice so
full of nothing but desire that it almost didn't sound like her own.
*Finish it. You cannot stop now ... You're so close!*
	*So close to what, though?* Celeste asked herself in
desperation.
	*Close. To everything.*
	*To what everything?*
	*Everything that matters.*
	Celeste let her hands drop to her lap and surveyed the riddle
once more, that cold place inside her dulling, becoming forgotten. She
was so damn close. Something seemed to shiver in her thoughts, like
striking a right note on a harp, and brought with it a sense of
clarity. This time, she didn't even bother to figure the riddle: she
merely shut down her computer, slipped into bed, and waited for sleep.
Waited for whatever dreams may come.

	Juliet sat on a stone coffin, an empty vial of poison clutched
in one hand. Romeo lay beside her, having already drunk the contents
of the vial. She gestured to Celeste.
	'Left no drop to help me after,' she mourned. 'Wisely and
slow, Celeste. They stumble that run fast.' Juliet reached down and
stroked Romeo's cheek. 'A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life.
O happy dagger - this be thy sheath!' Celeste gasped as Juliet
produced a dagger and plunged the blade into her own chest. Blood
poured from Juliet's mouth and chest, her hands grasping empty air in
her agony. Celeste backed away, horrified. With a final exhalation,
Juliet slumped over her lover's body, the dagger dropping onto the
ground. Footsteps approached. Macbeth, King Lear and Othello trod
towards the two bodies.
	'Is this a dagger I see before me?' Macbeth asked Celeste,
picking it up. 'All our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty
death. Out, out brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, remember.'
	'Nothing will come of nothing - think again,' Lear addressed
Celeste. 'Thou art a soul in bliss. Get thee glass eyes!'
	Gloucester lurched into view, both eyes missing. 'I have no
way, and therefore want no eyes; I stumbled when I saw!' He cried,
clutching at Celeste. 'Do you see? Listen! Listen well!' Celeste tore
herself out of his clawed grip in revulsion, shrieking. Gloucester
shook his head, drops of blood flying from his gutted eyes, and
staggered away.
	'Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend! Thou'lt come no more,
never, never, never, never.' Lear walked away, scowling angrily.
Othello stepped up beside Celeste and whispered in her ear.
	'To mourn a mischief that is past and gone is the next way to
draw new mischief on. Good name in man and woman is the immediate
jewel of their souls: who steals my purse steals trash. He that is
robb'd, not wanting what is stol'n, let him not know't, and he's not
robb'd at all.' He winked and disappeared into the shadows, teeth
gleaming in the darkness of his face. Silence, once more. And again,
came Hamlet, smiling grimly. He leaned in close towards Celeste, and
spoke only seven words before retreating into the murky dark.
	'A dream itself is but a shadow.'
	Celeste's eyes snapped open in the blackness of her room,
seeing something other than darkness. The image of Hamlet's face,
austere in the gloom, lingered before her eyes then broke up, as
dreams do, in the misty cloud of memory.
	*A dream itself is but a shadow*.
	*Shadow*.
	Feeling more relaxed then she had in days, Celeste slipped
back into sleep, confident of the answer and sure that she was on the
verge of some magnificent discovery.

						***

	This was it. 'The Configuration' was the subject title.
Celeste leaned back in the chair, clicking the button that would open
the e-mail. It read:

>Excellent. Your answer was again correct. We are confident that you
have what it takes to >solve this last puzzle, my child. The
Configuration is your only remaining riddle. Open it, >and all the
joys and wonders of our world will be yours. There can be no more
assistance on >our part, or from any other soul - this is only for
your eyes.

And below that:

Attachment: Lament (100k) View Attachment

	Celeste clicked the button, and waited for it to download.
While it did, she attempted to suppress her eagerness, instead
pondering what this 'Configuration' puzzle was, and why it was called
*Lament*.
	She had been staring down raptly at the keyboard, and at a
flicker of movement on the monitor she looked up. The download was
complete. Without bothering to shut off the internet connection,
Celeste immediately opened the downloaded program, watching in
fascination as the program launched.
	The screen went pitch black, and for a moment Celeste could
see her own wide-eyed reflection in it. Then a small cube appeared in
the centre. It grew larger, as if Celeste were rushing forward to meet
it. The image was crystal clear as the cube slowly began to rotate,
eventually showing all six sides. The main body of the cube was
brassy, shimmering like gold, and was broken up with dark lines of
black, smooth obsidian, which formed strange swirling designs that at
times resembled nonsense, and at others, resembled some exotic
alphabet, of Arabic or Theban. Each side of the cube was different,
but all contained those alien symbols. The screen around the cube was
so dark it was like a mirror, and the only writing was in the
bottom-left corner: *3D animation brought to you by Leviathan, in
association with demons.com*. Under that, a logo - a diamond - and the
slogan: *We have such sights to show you ...*
	Transfixed, Celeste moved the mouse-pointer over the revolving
cube. The pointer mutated into a miniature human hand, open, palm
down, fingers spread. Grasping. As the fingers touched a top corner of
the box, the cube abruptly stopped spinning, the uppermost face turned
towards her. For a moment, Celeste feared the program has frozen, but
the mouse still worked. She traced the hand over the angular pattern
on the face, carefully following the edges, as if guided by some
unseen force. As the pointer completed its journey around the rim and
returned to its starting place, half of the cube's face shot upward
like a drawer opening. There were a series of loud clicks that seemed
to issue from the computer monitor itself, and Celeste shot out of her
seat. She peered around both sides of the monitor gingerly, and when
no sound had occurred for a full thirty seconds, she returned to the
screen at half-crouch. Nothing had changed - the cube was still,
halfway through it's rotation, and the top half poking out. It looked
like a tongue, sticking out rudely, mocking her. Celeste cautiously
sat down once more, and took hold of the mouse. She ran the pointer
over the protruding segment of the cube, and it slid forward, then
back, then the segment sunk down back into itself. After a pause, the
cube commenced its leisurely spinning once again.
	'Okay ...' Celeste stared at it, puzzled.
	With the pointer, she nudged the top of the box. Celeste
gasped as the entire cube split into slices, one piece rising
independently above the other. The top portion made a slight rotation,
then slid snugly down, the slices intersecting like teeth. The cube
was no longer a cube. It had metamorphosed into a strange spiky box.
Celeste released the mouse, enthralled.
	With a sharp, deft movement, the 3D object on screen flipped,
leaving the top of the angular box facing her. Running rampant over
the surface were beautiful swirling patterns, and in the very centre,
a circle. The text in the lower corner of the screen flashed once,
then disappeared, leaving the box floating in a void of glossy black.
Celeste blinked. The circle on the box before her - although it was
truly no longer a box: it was a *configuration*, her mind protested -
slowly began to open, small triangular segments of the circle pulling
out, pulling back, pulling, folding, *grinning* open to reveal a
blackened circle that was darker than the nothingness that came before
creation, darker than the black surrounding the configuration, darker
than the night outside, and darker than the pupil of her eye as it
expanded, needing to see, gobbling up the light.
	Then two things happened, one after the other, in quick
succession: the lights went out, and the computer screen shattered.
	What prevented Celeste from death at that moment was good luck
combined with good reflexes. The instant the roomed plunged into dim
obscurity, Celeste had pushed herself backwards in her wheeled desk
chair, purely out of shock. What saved her life was the plush
deep-pile red rug that her mother had bought her for Christmas last
year, the rug that sat beside her bed. Had that rug not been there,
Celeste would have rolled smoothly backwards, across the polished pine
floor, bumped the wall on the other side of the room, and been a
direct target for the thing that flew out of her smashed computer
screen. As it was, the chair shot backward, the wheels hit the edge of
the rug, and the whole chair, Celeste and all, completed a spectacular
back flip. Celeste's head hit the floor with a thump, making her skull
ring smartly. She opened her watering eyes in time to see some dark
projectile shoot from the monitor and slam into the wall opposite,
embedding itself deep within the plaster. Before Celeste could make
sense of what she was seeing, gravity reasserted itself, causing her
legs and torso to slide off the fallen chair onto the floor. She felt
the softness of the rug beneath her hands, and that silky touch
brought clarity back. She untangled herself from the chair and sat
back on her knees. Cold air hissed past her right cheek, stirring her
hair, and she heard another baleful crack as something else lodged
itself in the surface of her bedroom wall. She started, trying to
focus in the gloom, flinching as a glacial and somehow slick object
brushed her cheekbone. She raised her hand to bat it away, but instead
closed her fingers around it, trying to discern what it was. The lines
and bumps were instantly familiar to her - it was a chain. A thick,
heavy, slippery shackle which ran from the absolute darkness inside
her PC screen to the dusky shadows flitting across the bedroom wall in
front of her. It slithered in her grip, greasy as an oil slick, and
Celeste was suddenly overcome by the certainty that she was grasping
some foul worm, an obscene eyeless thing from the core of the earth
that was now coiling inside her fist in an effort to turn in the dark
... and find her. She could smell the stench rising from it, a bland,
unforgiving stink; the reek of the soil deep beneath the earth in the
blackness that only corpses know, and embrace.
	She shrieked and her hand fell open, releasing the chain in a
spasm of horror. As she did so, she felt another rush of wind and a
sudden *thock!* as a third chain punched into the wall. She skittered,
twisting, in the direction of the door, using her right hand as
leverage to push herself off the floor. The muck coating her palm led
her grip to skid, and she overbalanced, falling hard on her side. Her
head hit the floor again, her vision flashing a neon red for an moment
before clearing. She tried to get up, but found she could not inhale a
breath - she had knocked the wind from herself in the fall. Her mouth
opened wide, but no sound came from it. She struggled, her hands
opening and closing uselessly. Then in a great gasp, she took in a
blessed lungful of oxygen, and another, and lay panting. Over the
sound of her ragged breathing came another sound - a *tink! tink!
tink!* Celeste propped herself up on her elbows, straining to hear.
Then she noticed the chains swinging, gently, side to side. From
inside the monitor, a tiny hand reached out, five long dusky fingers
closing on the chain. *tink!* The sound of minute sharpened nails
closing on metal. *tink!* Another hand, in front of the first. What
came scuttling through the jagged hole of the monitor, two hands and
two feet gripping the chains, resembled a spider monkey that was
suffering from extreme radiation poisoning. It stalked, upside-down,
using the three chains as ropes to support its passage. The chains
emerged from the same point and spread outwards like a fan, one to the
right, beside the headboard; one in the centre, above her vanity
table; and one to the left, which had buried itself deeply in the
shattered ruins of the lightswitch. The creature using them to
navigate was hairless, and a mottled shade of vein blue. Its eyes has
been crudely stitched shut, with broad black thread that could have
been strips of leather. Bands of fabric coursed down its thin arms,
weaving in and out of the pallid dead skin, and the last fold of the
fabric disappeared into the skin above its wrist, which was only as
thick as two of Celeste's fingers. The hands themselves seemed too
large for the body, the bones prominent beneath the shrunken skin. The
small, jerking shoulders were also covered by thinly stretched skin,
and the ribcage, slightly larger than Celeste's fist, was clearly
visible. Wasted legs preceded the clawed knarled feet, which clenched
the chain with the ease of a sloth.
	It turned its blind face toward Celeste, and she knew that it
could see her. It paused, licked its cracked lips with a haggard blue
tongue, and screeched. It was a gaunt, broken sound, and made Celeste
cringe back against the floor. Yet she knew, somehow, that the shrill
cry wasn't directed at her. It was ... calling.
	Celeste drew in a shallow breath and pulled her knees
underneath her. The creature, still hanging from the chains, cocked
its head like a bird. She slowly and carefully raised herself to her
full height, avoiding the chain to her left, which had punctured the
plastic lightswitch. The creature's tongue darted out once more, and
lolled across its thin lips. Celeste could see profound lines -
wrinkles - depressing the emaciated skin above and below the top and
bottom lips. It withdrew its tongue, pressing the lips together, and
for an appalling second it appeared to be blowing her a kiss.
Gingerly, she moved her left leg behind her, then took a step
backward. The thing on the chains didn't move. She took another step,
then another - and pressed up against something smooth and unyielding.
She whirled around, facing a monstrosity.
	It was a man, but it wasn't. His eyes were obscured by flaps
of skin. Thin silver wires ran from the sides of his head around to
his mouth, where his lips were pulled back from his gums in a
grotesque parody of a grin. His teeth, small and even like pieces of
sweetcorn, chattered, chattered, chattered. He was clothed in leather,
which seemed to be sown to his body. Exposed bits of scrubbed pink
flesh wept blood in rivulets. He grimaced at her, teeth rattling. And
reached for her.
	She tore a harsh, barking scream from her throat, up into his
no-face, and ran for the door. Just as she reached it, she stopped
short, as if slapped. Another chain, loosed from the computer screen,
propelled itself into the door, and from this close up, Celeste could
see the fat black hook on the end, digging into the splintering wood,
a living thing, biting. She tried to move, to avoid it, and felt the
first rusty sliver of pain. Something pattered, like raindrops, onto
the pine floorboards. She looked down, and circumspectly dabbed the
tips of her fingers against the bony chain erupting through her
abdomen, the links slick and wet with her blood. She placed her thumb
and forefinger around it, encircling it in an O, not quite daring to
touch the exact spot where it met her flesh, where she and the dark
metal worm became one. She drew in a hitching breath, and the movement
caused the pain to saw through her midsection with caustic gnashing
teeth.
	She tried to speak, but nothing emerged. Tried to move,
couldn't. To her horror, the door to which she was now so intimately
connected began to swing open. As it opened all the way, the chain
snapped her forward half a step, and she stumbled, almost fell. The
metal bit incisively. She puled quietly and looked up.
	Another ghoul stepped through the doorway, one arm out, his
forefinger lightly resting against the centre of the door, just below
the spot where the hook had ripped through the wood. The skin of that
hand was lurid white, the tip of the finger eternally bloody. The arm,
slender and stiff, encased in leather that, too, covered his torso,
flowing down to his legs in full gown of rumpled black, shrouding his
feet. At the navel, bloodied flesh peeked through, raw and seeping.
Celeste's eyes were unwillingly drawn to his face, where eyes of
polished onyx, ebony as oblivion, watched her, expressionless. She
could see herself reflected in his eyes, tiny, doubled, a hunched
thing, frozen in the bitter winter of each black iris. They surveyed
her, luminous in the unnatural waxen whiteness of his face. He had no
hair - instead, a swarm of pins or possibly nails had been driven into
his skull, an inch left out, exposed to sight, gleaming silver,
catching the moonlight. They covered every feature of his countenance,
like an acupuncturist gone insane. A few small holes still exuded
minute trickles of fluid, clear in places, streaked red in others.
Celeste tried to speak, or scream, or even step, but found that all of
those tasks were beyond her. So she stood, waiting, hands protectively
curled over her stomach wound, from which the oily chain extended like
some foul umbilical cord. This entity stood, waiting also, never
moving, the steady arm still outstretched, body never shifting, not
even the chest stirring with the inhalation / exhalation of a breath.
Its gaze never wavered from hers; the lids never dropped, he never
blinked. It was soundless, immobile, placid. It was death. It was a
made thing, not something born.
	After an eternity, the hand meeting the door dropped to his
side. Rose again, palm up, smooth palm, unlined. A made thing. A
gesture of pity. Compassion. A greeting.
	'Child ...' It sighed, a hollow sound, amused. 'Welcome.
Welcome to ...' Here, it stopped, and the inexpressive features
briefly moulded themselves to a frown, as if lost for words.
	*To what?* Celeste tried to ask, but couldn't. A thin hiss
escaped her, and that was all.
	It continued as if she had spoken. 'To everything ... that
matters.' The face never moved, but the eyes were grinning.
	From her right came a snuffling, wheezy sound. She turned her
head slowly, stretching tendons that seemed unused for decades. In the
corner stood a lumbering, pug-faced humanoid, encased in leather. It's
hands were restless, swollen, patting a slit-like wound on it's
stomach. It salivated, licking fat pink lips with a fat pink tongue.
It's eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, sooty and smeared. The
monkey-like creature chirruped, dropped from the chains and scurried
over, gripping the hulking troll's leg with both bony hands. It laid
it's head against the ogre's thigh in a ghastly indication of
solicitude, and glared at Celeste with stitched eyes, as if in
defiance.
	Celeste whimpered, and the pain in her abdomen rolled up in a
torrent.
	'Ah, welcome ...' Whispered the being in the doorway, gazing
at Celeste, speaking only to her. 'It's time ...'
	The pug-faced horror in the corner giggled, and the grimacing
creature's chattering gleefully increased.
	'Time ...' It murmured, almost mournfully. 'Time ... to play.'
It raised its arm again, the one closest to the door, and spread its
fingers. It placed its hand, palm down, over the gouge in the wood
where the hook had burst through. As all five fingertips touched the
pine, leaving five small bloodied smears, the hook tore itself from
the door. From behind Celeste came the dull dragging sound of ancient
stone parting, of a vortex being born, of a tunnel being created. The
chains retracted into it, Celeste's first, speeding through the wound
in her midsection until the hook connected with her body, wresting her
backwards. The other three hooks followed, one fastening on right
shoulder, another between her shoulder blades, the other in the meat
of her left thigh. Together, they drew her back into the open maw, and
the hot, stifling blackness enclosed her with a welcoming arm.
	It felt like a caress.
	It felt like teeth.
	It felt like flesh.